


I Died in the Dark (I Died in your Arms)

by Crimson_Voltaire



Series: This Twisted Space [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Federal Agents, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Dark Original Percival Graves, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, FBI Agent Newt Scamander, M/M, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Non-Consensual Kissing, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Read the tags - this one's dark, Vampire Original Percival Graves, Vampire Original Percival Graves Being Creepy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 22:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10818024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: Graves' worn combat boots are the only discernible thing in Newt's direct line of sight. When he manages to roll onto his back, the monster is staring down at him. Blood oozes from his white dress shirt, but he seems unbothered. Newt realizes the bullet would have missed his heart. Something tells him that's important, but he can't remember why.ORNewt has a run-in with Graves. It doesn't end well.





	I Died in the Dark (I Died in your Arms)

**Author's Note:**

> Please, read the tags and proceed with caution as necessary. 
> 
> Believe it or not, this actually came out of a (possibly) fluffy kissing prompt I found on Tumblr. It sparked a whole epic I have planned out but haven't actually written. This is part of that universe. As per my usual, not beta-read, so all mistakes and flaws are my own. This was pumped out and edited in about two hours, so fair warning. 
> 
> Graves is based (just a little) on Jerry from Fright Night, and a lot on my own interpretation of what a psychopathic serial killer may act like. [I would like to point out here that being a psychopath does NOT make him a killer].
> 
> Newt, in my head reminds me sometimes of Dr. Spencer Reid, physically. I expect Newt has a great intellect, but doesn't apply it (canonically) to areas that don't interest him. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

It occurs to Newt somewhere within the span of a minute - in the sixty seconds needed to _breath, focus, process where he is_ \- that he is staring down a killer. With his spine up against an ancient tree, as wide as Newt is tall, and darkness closing in, Newt succumbs to a terror he's never felt before.

Graves stalks towards him in a slow, measured fashion, a wicked grin on his ghostly features. He's like a wraith in the fading light, a spirit come to whisk Newt away and make sure he is never, ever found again. His pupils encompass the entirety of his eyeball - they’re pitch black and _hungry_. That smirk playing on his lips is feral.

Somewhere beneath the thundering of Newt's heart, he can hear Pickett whimpering. The German Shepherd lays low on the forest floor, his ears pinned against his head, teeth bared, eyes wild with fear. Newt's never seen him react like that - never seen _any_ animal react like that. His own heart is going so fast he's afraid it might stop, blood pounding through his ears. The man is still advancing on him, the smile hiding his teeth but promising something unholy. Inhuman.

_Run_.

Newt's instincts are screaming at him to get away, get away, _get away_ , but his reasoning, hanging on by the skin of its teeth, tells him it's no use. He's well and truly fucked. The man, monster, chuckles before halting twenty paces from Newt. He inhales deeply, nostrils flaring in a way that reminds Newt of an apex predator bearing down on its prey. Newt's heart misses a beat.

He clutches at the gun he normally keeps strapped to his thigh, panting, trying to dispel the primal terror and focus. The gun is metal and plastic, smooth and cool beneath his panic-flushed fingertips.

"I know how to use this," Newt warns, cocking the trigger.

Graves' smile grows wider, lips curling back over teeth and Newt swallows. That something Graves' grin hinted at before reveals itself in all its horrible glory. There are fangs - honest to god _fangs_ in the man's mouth, glinting in the dusk.

"Do you?" He husks. He sounds amused.

Graves maintains his measured pace, eyeing Newt with a certainty that comes with confidence. _Years and years of practice_. The monster is maybe ten paces away now and getting closer.

Newt waves the gun, crying out, "Stay back! I _will_ shoot you!"

Graves doesn't flinch. Instead, he throws back his head and laughs, pupil-dark eyes closing with merriment. Then there's a blur and suddenly a cool hand is pressing to Newt's throat. Fingers which are more like claws caress either side of his windpipe in a gentle fashion, belying an otherworldly strength just beneath the surface. It thrums like a song, eager, excited. It's a threat, barely concealed by a gentle stroke. Fear, syrupy and frigid drips down Newt's spine. Graves, as if sensing it, breathes in again, ducking his head to nose a line along Newt's jugular. His other fist, fingers calloused and work and worn and cold, close around Newt's gun. He presses the muzzle of the thing into his own flesh, twisting Newt's arm at an awkward angle so the butt of the gun rests against the agent's ribs.

"Do it," Graves murmurs, pressing his smile into Newt's skin, "Do it."

Fingers on the trigger. Somebody squeezes. Then, there's a _bang_ and both of their bodies jerk violently. The butt of the gun drives right between Newt's ribs and his breath leaves him in a ragged gasp. The agent slumps to the forest floor, wheezing, his nose filling with the rich, earthy scent of rotting loam and the heavy, cloying stench of blood.

Graves' worn combat boots are the only discernible thing in Newt's direct line of sight. When the agent manages to roll onto his back, the monster is staring down at him. Blood oozes from his white dress shirt, but he appears unbothered. Newt realizes the bullet would have missed his heart. _Something tells him that's important, but he can't remember why_. Newt is too busy getting his hands behind him and scrabbling back through the loam, palms scraping against dirt and wet leaves and _ouch_ -

He brings his hand to his face, squinting to make out the shallow gash in his palm. A droplet of blood - more black than crimson now when the sun has sunk below the trees, trickles down his palm. Graves sucks in a breath and falls to his knees, grabbing the hand without a word. He inhales again, taking a deep lungful of air and then releases it in a heavy groan. It resonates through both their bodies as he brings Newt's hand to his face. A perfect, pink tongue emerges from between those wicked canines, lapping at the droplet. The monster groans again, nuzzling his face into Newt's hand, pressing his mouth to the wound. The feeling of flesh knitting together beneath his lips sends a gush of cold terror through the agent.

"Perfect," Graves whispers, looking up. "So perfect."

He yanks Newt close, until the cool, hard expanse of his chest presses against Newt, until the slighter human is so near he has no hope of getting away (if he ever did). Newt realizes he's trembling, realizes he's crying, but there's nothing he can do.

In that moment, fear is just as much a murderer as Graves; it leaves him paralyzed in the face of oncoming doom.

_Please god - oh please oh please let it be over soon. I don't want to die - I don't want to die - I don't want to die -_

"Shh..." Graves holds one clawed finger to Newt's lips, "You're alright."

He tilts his head, lips parting in that half feral smile again. Newt shudders. A sob breaks through his ribcage like a searing banner of defeat. Graves hushes him again before he dips his head - _this is how it ends, oh god let it be quick_ \- and presses his lips to Newt's. The kiss is slow, gentle, filled with a smouldering and predatory passion. It tastes like blood and longing. Then it is over.

Graves smiles again, something softer, bordering on fond. He reaches up and rakes a hand through Newt's dirt crusted, leaf ensnared curls, which were once auburn but now muddy brown.

"Perfect," Graves whispers again, "Absolutely perfect."

He lets go of Newt, placing the quaking agent down in the wet earth and begins to pile dry leaves over him with tenderness.   
Newt can't move, his limbs feel odd and heavy, like they belong to someone else and were grafted onto his body. He wants to sit up, wants to reach for his gun, to end the nightmare, but he can't move. He can't even see Graves anymore.

_Shock,_ Newt thinks _. I'm going into shock._

The thought is loud in his head, accompanied by the retreating sound of footsteps.

Newt lies there, through the night and well into the dawn, as the world spins dark and then the sun returns. It is peaking though the tree trunks once more when Newt hears the dogs. It has crested the tops of the Sitka Spruce by the time they find him.

"Newt! Oh god! What the hell happened?"   
That's Tina, falling to her knees beside him, ripping off her own coat and throwing it over his half frozen body.   
"Where's Graves?"   
Newt flinches at the name. If one cares to look, as Tina does, they will notice his eyes are vacant, hollow, miles away. She frowns and places a warm hand on his arm, trying to rub some warmth back into his skin through the fabric of their clothing.   
"He's gone," Newt says, more to himself than anyone else, "He's gone."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment if you have any suggestions or thoughts, I always appreciate them.


End file.
